Last Viewed Free Verse Poems (29,539)

Waiting for love is good
When u wait something true
That pure,true love
Which makes u happy.

Waiting for love it deserves
When you wait that love
Which makes you feel
Butterflies in your stummy.

Waiting for life deserves
When you find your half
Which shares the same things
And suffer and is happy with you.

So varied are the hues of poetic pen,
With a multitude of exploding coloured ink,
In endless shades to choose from now, and then,
To set the writing mood, into which we sink.

Should I decide upon a nature write,
I must select just one of many greens,
To paint a woodland oil, in verse tonight,
Of lush green branches shading flowered scenes.

Humorous poems are best presented yellow,
The verses to be sunny, smiling bright,
This Irish poet not e'er a dour fellow,
To try extract a laugh from you, he might.

To pen dark verse, one must use darkest black,
Printed on a page of sombre grey,
The mood is set, no chance of stepping back,
The reader with sad tears, may have to pay.

Poems to my Love, are always delicate pink,
Verse from the heart, her eye to see words beat,
Fond lines penned madly now in perfumed ink,
Extracted from rose petals, for a treat.

Erotic verse scribed in pulsating red,
Throbbing, bulging blood to end in balm,
My pen grows hotter with every word that's said,
Eventually burns to flames within my palm.

Finally if you poets e'er grace my home,
Feel free to take a seat, and ease your pains,
Relax at my bureau and pen a poem,
For it's ink not blood that flows inside our veins !

Dawn walks in blue and diamonds
in robes of darkest grain
wind-parted

Sleeping she looked
like a river
Like a river
at dawn,
silver

sliver
of moon, wind

in poplars, flickering

of a candle that grows
imperceptibly
taller as it burns

Manacled girl
naked
surrounded

by flames, gigantic

rose
of painless fire—

Now I have passed through
voice and fire
could I be cleansed
of all
desire,
I don’t think so

Icon: cold gold telepathic eyes

Sacrament of metaphor, sacrament of matter

Aren’t stars almost in your vicinity

It was only the barest beginning starward-
bound, only the March branches, only
the first gifts of the first awakening
waiting
forever
to be born…

Dawn walked in blue and diamonds.

Volcano lava
Burning charcoal fired up
Dry ice cubes in hand

there are horses
no one ever rides
who have no mane
no neigh no cantor
feels no saddle
feels no bridle bit
is free and yet
is seldom seen
instead she rides
instead she glides
across the ocean deep
where she runs her course
the little little sea horse

someones watching over me
i think its my sis who wants to share
all the things she never had
all the things she cared

she has given me a vision
a direction i must go
n'er should i stop
i must only follow

i have seen a light that beckons
from within the tunnel of my life
shining ever so brightly
guiding me from strife

a light as beautiful as the moon
on any given night
no shadows cast upon my soul
for my vision is so bright

a light of love an understanding
an forgiveness wrapped in one
shining over all the valleys
never to be undone

never will i ponder nor
dance dark halls alone
my memories reflected
are now set in stone

i only have a vision
of what i must now do
that my dear lady
is to never stop loving you...

As winter yields
and April fades to May
the lengthening days
awaken cigarette haze
and Tullamore Dew
cloaked memories
of that summer we shared
on Árainn Mhór:

You lying in the sun
reading the thickest books we found
yellowing in a Dungloe shop window;
illustrated Life of Brian scripts,
The Last Temptation of Christ,
you liked them both –
and you, an atheist.

Naked splashing
in a spring-water rock pool
warmed in the sun
flushed by the tide.

As the Earth turned slowly
and seeming timeless
campfire evenings
stretched tilting –
tilting into darkness
I drank too much ‘Tullamore’
and you sipped rum.

You lying on talc-soft
passionate sand
beneath a parasol,
a wisp of gauze draped –
for decency’s sake –
casually across your thighs,
captivated me.

You laid aside
‘The Last Temptation’
as I walked toward you
and I swear to God,
that in your face
I saw the face of God.

And your welcoming smile
was His smile
and your wide-open arms
were His arms
and your acceptance of me
was His acceptance.

I hope I’m not disturbing you,
I had to speak to you again.

Straight from the ferry from Burtonport
I hired a bike and rode past Lough Shore
to the old lighthouse
where you spent long hours
painting your watercolours
and wanted to settle
but the cancer feasting on you
devoured you

I buried your ashes
in the amphora
you brought from Syria -
planted an asphodel
and inscribed a memorial
on a flat chalk stone,

“Here lies my brief miracle.”

Weathered by winters
the inscription is faded.

I sit drinking rum –
it tastes of your hugs
embraces my soul
you are near
you are
so very near.

I will go to the shore
to find another
white soft-stone marker,
and on it I’ll write,

“Tread gently... Saoirse dreams here.”

You would have prevented me from writing this
You are a strangler of a life that could have been indulged
A life realized
A chance taken
No you return all to the prison of safety
You are the governor and doubt is your prison guard

Who conceived you, was it I
Or were you inflicted on me?
For what purpose
What master do you serve?

You are the keeper of dreams
Boxed within your walls
At night while I sleep do you open those boxes?
Like some serial killer
Touching his trophies-his children-stolen
Forever stunted in infancy

I am that child you abducted
I have returned to redeem the past
For it is my story
And in that tale you were my schizophrenic sidekick.

I know your master
It was I
Your purpose it was this.

I CAN STILL TASTE THE SALT IN YOUR TEARS;
I CAN SEE THE FEAR IN YOUR EYES, AND HEAR THE BEATING OF YOUR HEART.
I CAN STILL FEEL YOUR PAIN, AND MY DESPERATION TO LEAVE.
THAT DAY, THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET.
TIME STOOD STILL, AND SO DID YOU, NOT KNOWING WHAT TO SAY,
ME NOT KNOWING WHAT TO DO, BUT I NEEDED TO BE FREE FROM THAT
LIFE THAT WE CREATED, JUST COMFORT, NO EXITMENT . WHERE DID YOUR PASSION GO? TO LATE NOW. BUT YOUR PAIN HURT YOU SO,
ON THAT DAY THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET.
FINDING ME WAS HARD ON YOU, BUT STAYING WITH YOU WAS HARDER.
PLEASE DON'T CRY, JUST LET ME GO, THERE'S NOTHING LEFT INSIDE OF ME.
YOU WENT AWAY, I HEARD NO MORE. I FELT RELIEVED,THAT I WOULD NEVER HAVE TO REPEAT THAT DAY I WILL NEVER FORGET.
ONE MORNING APPEARED IN MY LIFE THAT YEAR. NEWS THAT STRUCK ME LIKE
NON EVER WOULD. YOU MADE SURE WITH YOUR ACTIONS,THAT YOU'DE LEAVE AN IMPRINT IN MY LIFE, ONE NO OTHER COULD EVER ERASE. A BLOOD SOAKED LETTER YOUR EMPTINESS, AND YOUR LONLINESS. NOT MUCH MORE TO SAY. YOU TOOK YOURSELF AND PUNISHED ME WITH ETERNAL GUILT. AND NOW I AM BROKEN PUZZLEDD AND TAINTED. I CAN STILL TASTE YOUR TEARS,NOW ALONG WITH MY OWN. DEATH WAS YOUR REVENGE. NOW I'M SORRY I HURT YOU SO
ON THAT DAY I WILL NEVER FORGET.

On the line
I hang some postcards
I sit and ponder
The views I see

On display
Images of life I would like to see
What lies a head
My past have seen

My post cards my past
They are written change can not be
My past my memeries
Stored on my post cards

I post them on my line there
In front of me
my future what will I see
There on my post card posted for me